5. Selene
— ? —
Selene
I stand in front of our floor-length mirror and study the woman staring back at me.
The dress is a deep burgundy silk that clings to every curve before pooling at my feet in a whisper of fabric.
I bought it three weeks ago when I still believed tonight would be a celebration, when I still had hope that my husband would look at me the way he used to and remember why he fell in love with me in the first place.
The neckline plunges just low enough to be interesting, and the back is open, exposing the constellation of freckles along my spine that Dylan used to trace with his fingertips while we lay tangled together in the dark.
My hair is swept up in a loose chignon, tendrils escaping to frame my face in a way that took my stylist an hour to achieve. My makeup is flawless, subtle enough to look natural but dramatic enough for candlelight. Diamond drops hang from my ears, catching the light every time I move.
I look beautiful.
The woman in the mirror looks like someone worth showing up for.
The thought sends a spike of pain through my chest, and I have to close my eyes against it. Claudette’s words from last night keep circling back, vultures over carrion.
If he even bothers to show up.
I force the memory away and reach for my phone. Three hours until our reservation, and I haven’t heard from Dylan since he left last night. No good morning text. No confirmation of tonight’s plans. Just total silence, like I’ve already been forgotten.
My fingers hover over his contact information, and I hate how nervous I am. I hate that sending a message to my own husband feels like begging for scraps of attention. I hate that I’ve become this woman who needs to remind the man she married that she exists.
But I do it anyway.
Hey baby. Just wanted to confirm. 8:00 p.m. tonight at Sunset’s Soiree. I’ll be waiting for you. Can’t wait to celebrate with you. I love you.
I add a heart emoji, then delete it. Add it again. Delete it again.
In the end, I just send the message without any embellishment. The words should be enough. Seven years of marriage should be enough.
But I’m starting to suspect that nothing I do will ever be enough again.
The drive to the restaurant takes longer than expected.
Traffic on the canyon roads is backed up from some event downtown, and I spend forty minutes crawling forward in increments while my anxiety builds with every crawling minute. My phone sits silent on the passenger seat, screen dark, no notification light blinking with a response from Dylan.
He’s probably just busy with the shoot. He’ll see my message when he takes a break. He’ll text back to confirm, and then he’ll show up at eight o’clock looking exhausted but apologetic, and we’ll have a nice dinner and everything will be fine.
If he even bothers to show up.
I turn up the radio to drown out Claudette’s voice in my head.
Sunset’s Soiree is exactly as I remember it, elegant and intimate, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles below.
The ma?tre d’ greets me by name, because of course he does.
Dylan and I have been coming here for years.
This is where he proposed, down on one knee beside this very terrace with the city lights spread out behind him, endless and full of possibility.
“Mrs. Riego, what a pleasure.” He guides me toward our usual table with practiced grace. “Mr. Riego hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ve prepared everything exactly as you requested.”
The table is perfect. White linens, crystal glasses, a single candle burning in the center. A bottle of our favorite wine chills in an ice bucket beside the bread basket. Rose petals catch the candlelight, deep red against the white linen.
I arranged all of this yesterday, after Dylan left, wanting it to be special. I wanted him to walk in and see the effort I’d made and feel guilty for forgetting, and then feel loved because I did this anyway.
Now, settling into my chair with an unobstructed view of the door, I just feel foolish.
“Would you like to order while you wait?” The ma?tre d’ hovers attentively. “Or perhaps an appetizer to start?”
“I’ll wait for my husband.” I smooth the napkin across my lap and offer a smile that feels frail. “He should be here soon.”
The ma?tre d’ nods and retreats, and I’m left alone with the view and the candle and the growing certainty that I’m going to be waiting for a very long time.
Eight fifteen.
I check my phone for the dozenth time. No response to my message. No missed calls. Nothing.
The waiter approaches with a sympathetic smile. “Can I bring you anything while you wait, Mrs. Riego? Perhaps some sparkling water?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
He fills my glass and retreats, and I take a sip just to have something to do with my hands. The bubbles tickle my throat, a contrast to the dull ache spreading through my chest.
He’s probably just running late. Production emergencies happen. He’ll text any minute now with an apology and an ETA, and I’ll laugh at myself for being so paranoid.
I take another sip of water and focus on the view.
The city is beautiful from up here, all those lights scattered across the darkness as if they were fallen stars.
I used to love this view. Dylan and I would sit here for hours, talking about our dreams and plans, mapping out a future that seemed infinite and full of possibility.
When did we stop dreaming together?
When did I become the woman who waits while he builds his dreams without me?
Eight forty-five.
The appetizer I ordered sits untouched in front of me, the burrata slowly solidifying as the minutes tick by. My phone remains stubbornly silent. I’ve sent two more messages since the first one.
Everything okay? Running late?
Dylan, please let me know you’re on your way.
No response to either.
The restaurant is filling up now, couples settling into tables around me, their laughter and conversation creating a wall of sound that makes my solitude feel even more pronounced.
I catch a few curious glances from nearby diners, the kind of looks that say isn’t that Selene Riego? And why is she sitting alone?
I keep my chin up and my expression serene. Years of red carpet training have taught me how to maintain composure under scrutiny. No one watching me would guess that I’m slowly falling apart inside.
The waiter approaches again. “Mrs. Riego, can I bring you the main course? Or perhaps open the bottle of wine for you?”
I look down at the bottle chilling beside me. Still full. I’d been waiting to open it with Dylan, wanting to share that first sip together the way we always do.
“Another few minutes.” My voice sounds steady, which is a small miracle. “He’ll be here soon.”
The waiter nods, but doubt flickers in his eyes before he turns away. He knows. Everyone in this restaurant probably knows by now. The woman at table seven is being stood up on her anniversary.
Are you still coming, Dylan?
I reach for my phone again, but this time instead of texting Dylan, I call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
“Hey, this is Dylan. Leave a message.”
The beep sounds, and I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. What would I even say? Where are you? Why aren’t you answering? Don’t you know what tonight means?
He knows. He just doesn’t care.
I end the call without leaving a message and set the phone face-down on the table so I don’t have to look at the dark screen anymore.
Nine thirty.
The appetizer has been cleared away. I ordered an entree just to have something to do, but I can barely choke down a few bites before the food starts to taste like ash in my mouth. The candle has burned down to a stub, wax pooling across the holder in thick, mournful drips.
Around me, the restaurant is reaching its peak dinner hour.
Every table is full now, and the noise has reached a level that makes my solitary silence feel like a spotlight.
The ma?tre d’ keeps casting worried glances in my direction, probably wondering if he should say something, offer some kind of comfort to the woman who’s been sitting alone for almost two hours.
I don’t want his comfort. I don’t want anyone’s comfort.
I want my husband to walk through that door.
But the door keeps opening and closing, and it’s never Dylan. Couples arriving for their reservations. Friends meeting for dinner. Normal people living normal lives while I sit here, a monument to my own pathetic hopes.
I pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I’ve been saving. It seems stupid now, waiting for him to share it. He’s not coming. Some part of me has known that since eight fifteen, maybe since last night when Claudette’s voice dripped poison into my ear.
He spends every day with me because I bring a spark to his mind. You remind him of a passion he’s long outgrown.
The wine is excellent. It tastes like nothing.
Ten fifteen.
The couples around me are finishing their meals, paying their checks, gathering their things to leave.
The restaurant is starting to empty out, and my solitary vigil becomes more obvious with every departing diner.
The ma?tre d’ approaches my table with an expression of studied neutrality that doesn’t quite hide his concern.
“Mrs. Riego, is there anything I can do? Would you like me to have your meal wrapped to go?”
“No, thank you.” I don’t look away from the window. “I’ll wait a bit longer.”
He hesitates, clearly wanting to say something more, but professional discretion wins out. “Of course. Please let me know if you need anything.”
He retreats, and I’m left alone with the view again.
The city lights blur as tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back ruthlessly. I will not cry. Not here, not in public, not where strangers can watch Selene Riego fall apart over a man who couldn’t be bothered to show up for their anniversary dinner.
My phone buzzes.